


Coming undone

by Hexes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Peter Parker, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Frottage, M/M, Mean Boxes, Mental Instability, Mild DDLB, No Resolution, No actual sex, Protective Peter, Psychotic break, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Fantasy, Swearing, Switch Wade Wilson, This plotbunny dumped my ass, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-08 12:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14694615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: Wade's having a really bad night. Peter accidentally lends an ear.Un-beta'd.





	1. Gluttony

    Peter spotted the familiar red-and-black-clad figure. He was pacing furiously, gesticulating angrily. Peter landed on the roof, only slightly wary.

    “Hey, Dea-”

    He was suddenly staring down the barrel of Deadpool's Colt 1911 .45 ACP.

    “And how the fuck do I know you are who you say you are?”

    {Can't trust anyone these days.}

    [I say that all of the time and you never _fucking_ listen.]

    “I didn't say I was anyone,” Peter countered, less terrified of being down range of Wade than was healthy. Wade stared hard, trying to dissect that in his overheated mind. The man _looked_ like Spidey: All sinewy limbs and beautiful jawline, packaged in skin-tight spandex like a candy just begging to be devoured. Wade growled.

    [An unfortunately valid point,] White conceded.

    {Why didn't he say anything?} Yellow was less charitable.

    [One way to find out,] White reasoned. [Spiderman never lets you touch him with your disgusting hands - see what it gets you, you filthy creep.]

    {Baby boy always says ‘yes’ to me,} Yellow purred, voice dripping with lechery. White nearly choked. The two spiraled off into an argument. Wade made a decision.

    “Say, say, say…” Deadpool whispered against the inside of his mask, tilting a calculating look at the interloper. He pulled the hammer.

    Deadpool advanced.

    Spiderman fell back.

   They eked across the rooftop. The bricks of the lean-to felt like a gallows. Peter pushed himself further against the rough surface, the muzzle of Wade's semi-automatic nestling into the juncture of his throat and jaw like a ravenous lover.

    “Whyn’t you say you were anyone, baby boy?” His voice was feather-light, a sweet, little flame waiting to roar into an inferno.

    [Don't let him fool you, he'll only lie.] White pulled away from the argument with Yellow, abruptly, painfully focused on the matter at hand.

    {Lying is very rude, Wade. Don't let him lie.} Yellow dispensed sage wisdom at the most obnoxious times.

    “Didn’t give me a chance, now did you?” Peter’s voice was smooth - smoother than it had any right to be with Wade’s current state of mind. Wade’s body followed the Colt, sliding close and covetous against Peter’s, crowding him in, insinuating a beastly thigh between his.

    “You like that?” Wade’s voice was caught between the sound of an explosion and the slow bubbling of molten caramel. “No chance, no choice, all daddy’s doing: All mine,” he breathed the last two words against Peter’s ear, opposite of the still-hungry gun nestled into Peter’s jaw. His free hand stroked down Peter’s side to clutch desperately at his waist, running down to catch up Peter’s knee and curl it around his hip.

    “Would you stop if I said ‘no’?” Peter’s heart rate was climbing. He knew Wade talked about his body - knew that Wade used nicknames, endearments, and diminutives. But he was also painfully aware that Wade had never been so _forward_ with his, ah, _affections._ Wade rocked up, grinding what Peter was sure was more than just his cup against his own burgeoning arousal.

    “You never say ‘no’ to daddy, baby boy,” he slid his hand back up Peter’s body, catching the bottom of Peter’s mask and pushing it up to expose his mouth. “Never say ‘no’.” The declaration clawed its way out of his mouth like a demon, caressing Peter’s lips and making him shiver in ways he had never known possible.

    [Something’s not right,] White began,

    {He knows better,} Yellow hissed, interrupting White, {was trained better - he gave up his right to 'no’ long ago.}

    [You’re not hallucinating anymore, you sad-sack. You’re molesting the only person who can stomach the sight of you,] White continued, venomous. Wade stilled, working to ground himself.

    {Shit,} Yellow responded, eloquent to the last. Wade leaned forward, inhaling deeply, taking in Peter’s scent: It very obviously wasn’t the smell of his own sheets. He curled his hand around a powerful, delicate shoulder: It was firm, yet yielding, filling his palm with warmth.

    “Shit,” he echoed. He dropped the hammer and lowered the gun, holstering it. “I’m not hallucinating?” He leaned back to stare into the eyes of the Spiderman mask, trying to pull himself through the haze of his own mind. Peter's lips were plush and glistening in the fading sunlight, mask askew where Wade had pushed it up unevenly. _That seems odd_ , he held on to the strange detail. “Baby boy?” The body in his hands seized in a full-body shudder, and he felt clarity bleeding in around the edges of his thoughts.

    “In your,” Peter cleared his throat, “‘ _fantasies'_  am I ever like this?” Peter freed his leg from between Wade's, slinging it over his hip, squeezing the man's waist gently.

    Tenderly.

    Wade moaned, rocking into the motion, pulling against the shoulder caught in his grasp, his free hand skating along Peter's ribs. He ran his masked nose along the edge of Peter's jaw, gorging himself on the scent of his skin.

    Peter draped both of his arms over Wade's shoulders, catching his left elbow in his right hand and curling his left palm along Wade's head, tapping with his pointer finger to draw Wade's attention back to the question.

    “No,” he admitted. “Usually you're desperate for my cock - begging me to fuck you harder, come inside of you, tongue your tender hole until you shake apart with it,” he took a deep breath, beginning to throb in his pants.

    “Oh,” Peter's face ignited into a wildfire blush. Wade followed the colour as it bloomed on what little he could see of Peter's face to where the glowing ruby hue disappeared beneath the collar of the Spiderman uniform.

    “Other times you fight like a wildcat,” Wade continued, “break a few of my bones, hissing as I bend you in half and fuck you mute.” His fingers curled possessively against Peter's waist, clutching desperately. “Sometimes you shove me into an alley, wild with it, and fuck me so hard I bruise-” he interrupted himself to press a kiss to Peter's throat. Grinding against his baby boy, the leather of his uniform sliding slickly against the spandex of Peter's. _God,_  he shoved his mask up just enough to expose his mouth, _never this good in dreams,_  he thought, dimly. He snared a bit of the material of the spider suit between his teeth pulling it taught before releasing to snap softly against Peter's throat. The stuttered breath he earned in response spurred him to keep talking.

    “Sometimes we scene: I stalk you, catch you unaware, push you on your knees, tear off your mask and fuck your pretty little throat til you cry-” he gasped, voice ragged with want, beginning to leak, now. Peter’s throat felt dry, the evidence of Wade's arousal impossible to miss, nestled so near his own.

    “Do I ever safeword?” Peter asked, suspecting the answer.

    “What?” Wade jerked, pulled from his musings without preamble.

    “I… no,” Wade seemed genuinely confused, “I don't know your safeword?” He was pretty sure of that. Mostly. He was certain he'd remember something that important.

    [I would remember it,] White said dryly, [if for no reason other than to remind you how managed to fuck everything up - _again_.]

    “It's 'scanner’,” Peter allowed; he remembered it from a brief foray into the world of kink with MJ. Wade tilted his head back to look up at Peter's partially-covered face, devoting all of his slowly-gathering wits to absorbing this information. Peter continued, speaking slowly, “as in 'police scanner’,” he took a deep breath, “as in when I- when I'm just,” he tightened his thighs around Wade's waist, nervous, “just, ah, p-Peter,” he slumped slightly, having cleared the hurdle. “Just Peter, at home, and the scanner goes off, I drop everything…” Wade nodded gravely. It made sense.

    {Wait, wait, wait!}

    [Did he just-]

    “Did you just..?”

    [He does know you'll get him kidnapped or killed, right?]

    {Did he just **do** that?!}

    Peter nodded, looking to the side. “You're not hallucinating, Wade,” he said, softly. He ran his hands over the man's shoulders. “We're both here - right here - right now. It's Tuesday, the 18th of August. It's around 2100 hours.” Wade shook his head, the lingering confusion peeling away like chipped paint. He stared at his baby boy - Peter - his own saviour.

    “Let's go get tacos from the carnicería down the street,” he suggested, “then I'll swing us home.”

    “Home?” Wade repeated, bewildered. Then realised he still had Peter pinned to the lean-to, groping him. He moved to pull back.

    Peter's legs squeezed, a very gentle reminder of his vastly superior strength underlining the movement. Wade stilled. He turned his attention back to Peter's pillowy lips.

    “I take it that we're going to have to have _A Talk_ about all those scandalous fantasies I'm pretty sure I just spilled?” Wade watched, bewitched as Peter's mouth curled a lascivious smirk.

    “Perhaps a demonstration would be appropriate, given the circumstances,” he rolled to his feet, causing Wade's eyes to follow suit. “But first, tacos.”


	2. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade and Peter return to a safehouse burdened with a ludicrous amount of Mexican food and have a conversation about what triggered Deadpool's dissociation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would rate this as mild gore, but I also started playing Unreal Tournament on maximum gore when I was a kid, sooo... I might not be the best judge.  
> There's mentions of shooting and dismemberment.

   The two walked to Wade's nearest safehouse from the carnicería, too loaded down with the entire contents of the menu to swing. Wade was still trying to work his way out of the mire of his own mind, too muddled to truly comprehend the gravity of the situation. He sullenly kicked a pebble at a VW beetle, staying resolutely mute. The car indignantly screeched at him to get his shit together. He thought, perhaps, it'd be easier to get his head on straight if things would stop yelling at him. He flipped the car off, trying to be subtle, as he was relatively certain Spidey would disapprove of such behaviour.  

    Peter, for his part, tried to remain alert without distressing his compatriot: Wade's uncharacteristic silence was far more concerning than his earlier trigger happiness. Peter let Deadpool keep his peace, tangled up in his own thoughts as he quietly observed Wade. A pleasant side effect of them being in full kit, he thought, was that no one tried to panhandle them. He wasn't sure Deadpool wouldn't lethally snap on a civilian if they moved wrong, and the end of their sojourn was one of the single most soothing experiences he'd had in years.

    The place was extremely well-kept by Deadpool standards: There were no bullet holes in the walls, all of the weaponry was lovingly organized in the armoury room, the takeaway containers were easily swept into the (as yet) mostly-empty bin, and there was nothing developing its own intelligent life in the sink. The bathroom air freshener even still had oil in it. Peter deeply suspected that the house was new. He unpacked their haul onto the kitchen island and pulled up barstools for the both of them, staring at Wade as the mercenary prodded through containers, plating meals for the both of them.

    “So…” Peter began after a few moments, convinced that Wade wouldn't. Wade sucked a breath through his nose, growling and shoving his mask just up and over his twitching lips. He flopped onto the stool, his brow crumpled up with the fabric of his mask.

    “They deserved it.” Wade cut in, his teeth bared as he picked convulsively at the label on a bottle of Cholula. Peter hummed a non-committal response. “And I mean that,” he added slamming down the bottle and stabbing a pea that was attempting to escape its fate.

    “Okay,” Peter tried to sound calm. This wasn't the conversation he'd _meant_ to start with, but so it went. He took a slow breath, doubting that Wade needed any more excitement. The stark evidence of Wade's particular field of employment still bothered him. Wade picked up the bottle to continue fidgeting, now tearing at the label as the edge of his lip curled in fury.

    “They were killing kids, Spidey,” the label came free and he worked it into progressively smaller pieces, shaking with rage. “Little kids… taking them and cutting them open and stuffing drugs in their guts-” he jerked, looking over his shoulder as a hand fell to his thigh holster “The fuck did you just say?” He hissed. Peter felt a thrill dance down his spine: That tone was bad news. Peter looked past him, checking visuals against his other senses. There was no one there. “Kill you again, you goat fucking shit stain! Burn your corpse this time-” Wade's voice had gone raspy as he seethed.

    [Thought we killed that monkey fucker,] White sounded contemplative.

    {We did - but the nice thing about them not staying dead is that we get to kill them again!} Yellow had a point, White conceded with a sigh.

    [Incendiary rounds, kids: they're important.] White and the shit timing for wisdom. They heard Spidey breathe deeply before he spoke.

    “Wade,” he said it softly, hearing the catch on the holster give. “Wade look at me,” he tried again, watching as the other's breathing changed, his stance shifting for combat as he slid off the bar stool. He was strangely comely like this: Like an apex predator in its prime. Luckily for both of them, spiders are always on the top of their respective food chains.

    “Daddy, look at me,” Peter’s voice folded around the words with a soft demand, it sounded like a command, but was delivered like a plea. Wade snapped to attention, all of his focus trained on Peter. It felt like being hit by a train.

    {We always listen to our baby boy,} Yellow sounded slightly offended.

    [Spiderman isn't our baby boy: He's a grown ass adult with who knows what damage, given he hangs around with Wade.] White countered, annoyed with both Yellow and Wade, and their collective obsession with the web slinger.

    “Talk to me,” he said quietly. The danger hadn't passed, and being the sole focus of Wade's crushing gaze was unsettling.

    Wade sucked in a deep, wet breath, his chest expanding to accommodate the pull. “Killed them all,” his voice trembled as his throat worked hungrily, “every one of them,” he sighed with such obvious relish that Peter found himself extremely disquieted. Listening to Wade wax sensual about murder was significantly more upsetting than staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol with the hammer down, one in the chamber, and a full clip. Wade mounted the bar stool again and Peter very pointedly stared at the plate full of nachos, picking off olives as Wade's hips swiveled and bucked while he got comfortable.  

    “Started with the kingpin - drugs and human trafficker specializing in mixed shipments.” His hand had fallen to rest on his holster again, stroking grip of the Colt slowly, gloved fingers skimming around the magazine well. “Cut him up, baby boy,” he moaned softly, wrapping his fingers around the grip working the gun out of the holster, “turned him into little pieces of chum and left a trail of him for his lackeys to follow...” He was thumbing the safety, licking his lips. “Rounded most of them up: Headshots,” his head lolled like he was drunk, “boom-” he sighed, “headshot,” his lips caressing each sound as it passed them, “boom - headshot - boom... headshot…” his voice trailed away, too little air left in his lungs to keep vocalizing. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply, like he was inhaling the scent of blood and grey matter. A tiny, needy noise creaked through his throat as he bit his lip, savoring the memory. “Turned their skulls into a fine, pink mist,” he made the sign for _explode,_  and Peter could imagine Wade's eyes fluttering happily behind the lenses of his mask, like he was in agony with ecstasy. “Felt so good…”

    {The smell of the blood: The sound of the screams…} Yellow sounded drunk, too. A soft moan echoing through Wade's head as they remembered the pitch of the pleading.

    [The pleas for mercy,] White began, sounding smug. [The rapture of the denial of leniency…]

    {[God, the _blood_. _._.]}

    Peter flicked a piece of soggy mushroom at Wade to bring him back to the present. Wade jerked out of his reverie, mouth open in shocked confusion.

    [{What?}]

    “What?”

    “Look at me, Pool,” Peter said softly, “What do you see?” Wade's mask writhed as he tried to piece together his reality.

    “You?” He suggested. He was pretty sure that was Spidey. They'd been going to get food, because they had to talk about something. Reasonably sure, even.

    “Yes,” Probably Spidey said patiently, “Look at me.” Like that was ever a hardship. “Focus on me.” That… was less kind. “Describe what you see in detail,” details were the devil, though.

    “Mask?” He supplied, trying to drown out the boxes and the pendejos he was absolutely certain he'd killed while on assignment.

    “Yes. And..?” The Likely Spidey was swirling his fork through the contents of a container of chile verde, his mask tucked just over the tip of his nose, a tiny tuft of brown hair sneaking out near the collar of the suit. He looked delectable. Wade wanted to touch him.

    “The lenses of your mask,” he offered.

    {Want to see his eyes,}

    “That little bit of hair that's escaped your mask; it looks so soft-”

    {Touch it!} Yellow demanded.

    [Do not.] White snapped. Wade twitched in indecisiveness. God he wanted to touch - it helped him to work out what was and was not a hallucination, but Spidey didn't deserve to suffer his touch. Not again. No one deserved it. Wade stabbed himself in the hand, yowling in shock.

    “That'll wake you up in the morning!” He sounded entirely too cheerful.

    “Bad Deadpool!” Peter seized the wrist of the hand holding the knife, squeezing until he felt bones creaking and the knife was released.

    {He initiated contact!} Yellow squealed gleefully.

    [I don't think this is the victory you think it is.]

    He pulled the knife out and threw it toward the armoury room. “Very bad!” He snapped again. How Wade could look penitent through a mask was truly a question for the ages. “No,” he said, firmly. “No puppy eyes. Eat your pig foot.”

    “But-”

    “Nope. None of that, either. Eat your pig foot.”


	3. Wrath

    Peter was certain he was going to pop. He was so, so full. He felt heavy and indolent, leaning back to try to alleviate some of the pressure on his stomach. Wade seemed to have gone from vibrating apart at the seams to a slow rhythmic tick in his trigger fingers.

    “Bed.” Peter demanded. Wade's head swiveled to look at him, the movement strange and smooth like an automaton.

    “Pardon?” His voice quavered, a hint of French sneaking into the pronunciation. His mask was crinkled between his brows, and Peter could nearly hear the crunching thunk of the gears grinding in Wade's head.

    “Bed.” Peter repeated, tone stern. “I want to sleep.” He stared at Wade. Wade stared back. The grinding noise continued at the edge of perception.

    Wade stood slowly, as though sudden movements might startle Peter and send him fleeing. He made a gentle motion with his right hand to encourage Peter to follow him, and drifted down the hallway in a seemingly dreamlike state, glancing over his shoulder incessantly in a fashion he likely thought was quite subtle.

    The reached the last door on the right and shuffled into the bedroom. Wade didn't generally sleep in a bed, much less at this house, and so it was made. It had to be a California king, the enormous thing dominating the room like a huge, fluffy black rabbit. The thick black and grey damask comforter puffed up where it wasn't tucked sharply into the lower corners. The black striped sheets shined - probably silk or satin - and were snugged up to a mountain of king size pillows offset with smaller pillows in grey microsuede shams. Wade squinted at it. It looked like he'd plucked a vignette out of a Bed, Bath and Beyond.

    [You definitely did. The girl at the register nearly pissed herself.] White sounded bored.

    {I wouldn't let us leave without the fuzzy shams,} Yellow added, helpfully.

    Peter didn't care. Nor did he stand on ceremony. He tottered forward, somehow slipping out of his boots as he went, ripped the bedclothes down, toppled onto his left side and proceeded to worm his way across the mattress, catching up the sheet and arranging a nest of pillows how he saw fit. He moaned happily and began to melt into the pillow top.

    Wade paced forward. Doubled back. Walked to the end of the bed. Squinted at Spidey's slowly rising and falling chest. He shucked his boots off. Wandered over to the dresser. Glanced back at the man in his bed. Went to the closet, stripped his uniform save his mask, and stuffed it in the hamper. He went back to the dresser. Peeked at the other man again.

    {It's really rude that we can't see if he's watching us, y'know?} Yellow sounded petulant.

    [He's not.] White sounded convicted.

    {He _could_ be! We'd never know!}

    [He's not.]

    Wade huffed, popped open a drawer, fetched out a pair of Wolverine boxer briefs and changed quickly out of his Spider-Man(TM) ones, tucking them off to the side of the dresser, out of sight. He glanced over again. Peter hadn't moved. He pulled on a pair of brilliant pink chenille socks, sighing blissfully at the texture.

    Wade crept back to the bed, sitting on the edge of the side that Spidey had left him. He stared at the other man. Spidey didn't move, aside from breathing slow and even through his lungs. Wade picked at the sheets awkwardly.

    “So… you gonna sleep in that mask?” Wade wasn't sure precisely what he had expected. Just because they'd been talking about fucking didn't mean they were on a face-to-face basis, he guessed. Spidey jerked, sucking a breath through his nose.

    “Yeah - let's -” Peter burrowed a little deeper into the pillows. “Let's just chill out, digest, actually let the anxiety simmer down.” He seemed quite comfortable. Oddly so, in fact.

    “I… was going to kill you,” Wade felt bewildered. He loved Spidey. But he had been so furious and confused. And he still loves Spidey, and now he's calmer, but differently confused.

    “Yeah. I know. But thankfully you were distracted by my spidery charms and instead told me how desperately you wanted to fuck.” Peter rubbed at the side of his nose through his mask. “So there's that, at least.” Wade blinked at the garishly dressed man, so at ease in his bed, blithely talking about how his ass had gotten him out of a murdering.

   “Those are hollow point rounds, baby boy.” Wade spoke slowly, trying to impress the danger upon him. “They make big holes.” Big, wet, ragged holes - the kind that tore up intestines and shattered bones. Made strong, pretty faces into ugly, abstract art.

    “Yeah,” Peter sighed. Maybe he'd make some hot chocolate, if Wade wasn't ready to sleep. “And yet, you seemed more distracted by other, ah, _holes_ , than interested in rearranging my grey matter.” Wade rocked back on his seat, blinking rapidly. “Speaking of things we were a few hours ago,” Peter pinned him down with a weighty stare that cut through the lenses of his mask, “what's _your_ safeword?”

    Wade made a very strange noise, something akin to what a parakeet may sound like if it were crushed mid peep. Peter granted him no quarter. Wade began to fidget under the scrutiny, his hands twitching like he wanted to stab himself again. Peter wanted to be merciful, he really did, but this was too important. He waited patiently, mulling over why Wade might be so reticent.

    “Don't have one.” Wade finally burst, the admittance was strangely quiet for having taken so long to build up. Peter had trouble seeing for a moment. He couldn't hear properly, and it felt as though his skin had caught fire. Breath seared his throat as he took a slow, measured inhale. It burned like acetylene on the way back out.

    He'd entertained the notion that perhaps Wade's reluctance was because the word was silly, or cutesy, something like _Kowabunga_ or _buttercup_ . But reality was ever so much worse. Wade had gone terrifyingly still, rendered nearly invisible between his immobility, the lighting and the thickness of Peter's lenses. It was amazing how someone so _large_ was capable of such stealth.

    “Oh?” Peter managed quietly, “why's that?” He wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

    “No one's ever - ah,” he suddenly found the wall unbearably interesting. “Er… cared? I mean asked! Asked. Yeah.” He bounced his knee, counting irregularities in the finish on the bedside table.

    Peter breathed slowly, reciting the names and capitals of every state he could remember. It wasn't many. It didn't calm him down.

    “That's…” he stopped, trying to find a word that suited his burning rage without sounding like he was angry with Wade, “their loss.” He settled on. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do, given that his vision was swimming with fury, his blood pressure so high he could hear it circulating through his ears. It was fortuitous that he was laying down, or he might have felt faint with it. “The pleasure that comes with the trust of having a safeword is transcendent.” There. He was proud of himself. He'd managed to indicate that he was displeased with Wade's former partners without slighting Wade. He felt like he was melting, angry sweat bursting all along his back.

    “Oh,” Wade began, feeling the need to protect Nathan, even though he'd broken his heart and spat on the shattered remains in the name of saving the future. “it's not their fault - Nathan was really just… he was just-”

    “Wrong.” Peter hissed. “He was wrong.” He was sweltering with wrath. He pinched at the bridge of his nose.

    “I mean, I never asked for one, or anyth-” Wade felt guilty. It wasn't that his formers were bad people, or anything. It was probably his fault. Most things were.

    “It's the top’s job to ask or provide. Even just the traffic light system. You are not in the wrong here, you don't need to apologise, or explain away his bad behaviour. You're worth more than someone who won't care for you properly.”

    Wade stared at Peter. That little tuft of hair still sticking out of from under his mask. He'd taken his gloves off in an unprecedented show of trust that had made Wade's innards feel like poorly set gelatin. Even more than leaving his cup on the counter, he'd left slightly greasy fingerprints all over the smooth, shining glass. They'd be so easy to lift. It wouldn't even take much effort.

    {We should run his prints!} Yellow suggested loudly.

    [Do not.] White snapped again. [He's probably not even in Codex.] White had a good point. As usual. Wade frowned.

    “Worth..?” He started. He felt faint. He hadn't felt faint in decades. He dropped heavily on the bed, his legs flopping awkwardly up to join his body.

    “More than that,” Peter repeated, firmly. “Yes.” He motioned Wade forward, further into the enormous bed. “Come cuddle. I'm fucking _wiped_.”

    Wade eked forward. “Big spoon, or little spoon?” He was genuinely curious. None of his fantasies nor resident voices in his head had ever been able to agree on what kind of cuddling Spidey preferred.

    “Any spoon, fork, or butter pick, I don't care as long as we get close, and get snoozing.” Peter did sound like the ragged tatters of consciousness.

    “Can I-” Wade screwed his courage to the sticking place, “little spoon?” He rushed it out before he could stutter, turning so that his back faced the other man.  

    “Absolutely,” Peter purred, molding himself around the scorching bulk of Wade's body, nesting against him just as happily as he had done with the pillows. “Sleep sweet,” he murmured into Wade's neck, falling still as Wade closed his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at his face beneath his mask.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butter picks are these strange torture-device-lookin' contraptions that were shaped to make it easy for the user to fetch out a portion of balled or curled butter from a display. O.o  
> Also, I should be sleeping/working on a paper about historical sound changes, so I'll proofread this in like... a month.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been rolling around my head for a while, but the bunny seems to have bit the dust, hence the rather abrupt end. 
> 
> Not exactly sure about the rating, but there's some pretty graphic descriptions, so... better safe than sorry? 
> 
> I'll proof it sometime soon.  
> <3  
> P.S: Edited for determiner drop and spacing issues.


End file.
